


Make Light

by Recourse



Series: Prospective Angles [1]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Canon Autistic Character, F/F, Overstimulation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-17
Updated: 2017-10-17
Packaged: 2019-01-18 16:40:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12391992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Recourse/pseuds/Recourse
Summary: The new Overwatch isn't what Satya expected when she defected. It is a mob, a gaggle of unprofessional, disorganized egomaniacs and a command structure that doesn't follow any reasonable chain, all overcrowding and cluttering the small spaces of the Watchpoint.But there is one true professional in the organization. And through her, Satya starts to find her place.





	Make Light

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to [Quandary](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Quandary/) for help brainstorming this little thing!

Satya appreciates the silence.

She is used to others thinking her awkward, cold, robotic. It is their nature, to consider her an outsider, and then make use of the very talents that spring from her difference. It is what she expected when she reached out to the reformed Overwatch. She expected no more accommodation or understanding there than with Vishkar. It was merely a chance to create order instead of serving greed.

But the woman sent to escort her safely to Gibraltar was not what she expected.

She sits across from Satya in the shuttle, visor pulled over her head, checking her armor’s systems for spot repairs that will be needed. After the fight to the shuttle, it is a blissful silence between them. She had introduced herself as “Codename Pharah,” and said almost nothing after that. She sees no reason to force idle conversation between the two of them. It gives Satya time to study her.

Her armor, dinged and scorched though it may be, is of exquisite design. Perhaps the accents on it are unnecessary, the bird motif an affectation, but it doesn’t clash either. The deep blue paint glimmers in the spots where it wasn’t damaged. Whatever Pharah’s reading on her visor, she’s cross-checking it with her hands, efficiently moving her fingers to check the damaged spots, where crumple zones may exist. Satya wishes she had a readout of her own. She could make the repairs herself, here, with Pharah’s guidance, and it would occupy her mind.

The hints of Pharah’s face beneath the visor are interesting, too. Her jawline, her brown skin, the hint of an asymmetrical tattoo beneath one eye. On some level, the difference pings in Satya’s brain. On another, she understands the beauty of managed asymmetry.

“We’re almost there,” Pharah says, looking up. Satya starts. She was staring. It’s impolite to stare. She knows that. Pharah doesn’t acknowledge it, moving forward with, “Intake is...quite a process. You’ll be mobbed as soon as we step out of the shuttle.”

Satya ignores the pang of fear in her chest. Irrelevant and unnecessary. While she doesn’t relish being surrounded by other people, she needn’t fear it either. She can compose herself for a few minutes, an hour. She will endure. She nods to signal this understanding.

“Don’t...let my mother get to you,” Pharah adds, a smile showing slightly beneath her visor.

“Your mother?” Satya asks.

“The famous Ana Amari, yes,” Pharah replies, a slight edge in her tone. Satya processes this quickly. The news of her death, false. And a daughter exists, apparently. “She doesn’t actually hold an official title right now and she’s not permitted to interrogate you. So...you don’t have to answer her questions, no matter how nosy.”

“Understood,” Satya says simply. Should she say something appreciative? It was kind of her to consider this. To warn her. But the moment’s passed, and the shuttle pilot is announcing their landing. Pharah gets up and leaves as soon as the doors open, waiting for Satya on the loading ramp. As soon as Satya can see the hangar, she sees the party of people she’d been warned about.

She is thankful it is only three. A white man with graying hair and a cybernetic visor over his face, his scars and enhancements clashing against the neat dress uniform he wears. A white woman in a lab coat, hair pinned up in a bun, beaming at Satya like an American customer service worker. And then there is Ana Amari, headscarf wrapped haphazardly, outfit a shambles of desert sniper gear as though she’s just come back from a mission herself.

“Fareeha, ḥabībti,” she calls as they step off the ramp, “Have you finally brought home a nice girl to meet your mother?”

 _Fareeha._ Such a simple link from name to codename. Satya glances at the woman in question, who’s already grimacing. She wonders what it would be like, to say the name aloud, breathe the last syllable between her teeth. It is pleasant, in a strange way.

“Mother, enough,” Fareeha sighs, taking her helmet off and tucking it under her arm. Her hair is surprisingly ordered, charming little braids woven into it with gold jewelry. Her face is free of scars, deformities, aside from the tattoo. “Extraction of the Vishkar agent was successful. Commander, Dr. Ziegler — this is Satya Vaswani.”

“Commander Jack Morrison,” the man says, stepping up and holding out a hand. “ _Nominal_ commanding officer of this watchpoint.”

There’s a quirk in Fareeha’s mouth that looks almost amused. Satya remembers to reach out and shake his hand. His grip is too strong. “I’ll need you to report to the briefing room as soon as you’re ready,” he says. “We’ll start putting you into the database properly and find you a good role to play as we rebuild ourselves.”

“But not before seeing me!” the woman chirps, hopping up beside him as he drops Satya’s hand. “Doctor Angela Ziegler, at your service. I’m afraid we’ll have to have a thorough medical examination. We can’t allow you to be bringing back any monitoring devices in your body or bloodstream, after all. Of course, not that you’d come knowing you were being monitored, but sometimes things slip us by, and we simply must be sure.”

Satya tenses at the prospect of being looked over and poked and prodded by this...woman. But if it has to be done, so it will be. She wishes, irrationally, that this was all over with and she could have a sense of where she actually belonged in this organization, what role she can fill, but that will come later. Hopefully.

“And of course you’ll have to come with me to tea and we’ll have a small questioning session about—” Ana begins.

“Mother, I already warned her about you and your tea sessions,” Fareeha sighs.

“You never let me have any fun,” Ana complains.

“I’ll start prepping your examination,” Ziegler says. “Where _is_ Winston? He’s meant to be showing you to your room.”

Just then, something very large and heavy drops from the ceiling right beside Satya, making a loud _thud_ against the concrete. Satya jumps away, hand going for her photon projector at her side until she sees what made the commotion.

A gorilla. An armored gorilla, an animal, had just dropped down from the rafters in the hangar and right beside her and it has glasses on and _what is this organization._ It rises up, a smile on its face showing sharp canines.

“Sorry about that,” it says in a strangely smooth voice. “Jamison was being a bit of a problem child again. I take it this is our new recruit?”

Ah. So this is Doctor Winston. Now that the alarm in Satya’s head has cleared, it’s obvious what this is. “This is Satya, yes,” Fareeha says. “And she’s had a long day.”

“I’d imagine so. Doctor Winston, at your service,” it says, holding out one enormous paw. Satya doesn’t want to touch it. It’s _hairy._ She steels herself and, while her hand can’t hope to really fit within the beast’s, it takes hold itself. The pads of its fingers feel like stretched rubber, uncomfortable, unclean. “We have private quarters for you, for the moment, at least,” Winston says, and that’s enough for Satya to feel slightly safer. “Until we have a few more recruits we can spare one of the commander’s cabins for you. Our intel says you’re used to that sort of accommodation.”

“I am. Thank you.” Satya hopes her sincerity is clear. She had been dreading the prospect of sharing a barracks with soldiers.

“Excellent! I’ll take you there now, I’ll even give you a tour on the way.” He smiles at her again. His teeth are in surprisingly good shape. How does one maintain dental health for a gorilla?

Ugh. She’s meant to walk beside him for a while, isn’t she. Well. Soon she will be someplace private.

“Fareeha, don’t try to sneak away on me,” Ziegler warns as Winston starts knuckle-walking towards a door across the hangar. “You took damage in that fight. You need a checkup.”

“I’ll see you later, Satya,” Fareeha says. “Welcome to the team.” And then Fareeha slaps Satya on the back.

She freezes, instantly, fingers tensing for her projector, mind going into alert and preparing a way out of this place. She blinks. Steady your breathing. Control your mind. It is simply her way. She is a soldier.

Fareeha’s eyes have widened, and she quickly straightens herself. “I’m sorry, that was—”

“I prefer not to be touched,” Satya interrupts. She ought to lay out conditions to prevent situations like this from occurring in the future. They’re staring at her, all of them. It is more uncomfortable than leaving it unsaid, for the moment. But this will prevent future incidents. She hopes.

“I understand,” Fareeha says with a nod. “It won’t happen again.” There is some glance between Fareeha and her mother, some hard note in her gaze. Satya take note of these signals. The things people do not say speak volumes.

It is appreciated. But it would be foolish to say so. Of course she should be respected here.

As the party in the hangar head their separate ways, she can only hope that that will actually be the case.

 

* * *

 

While Ziegler is a bit too chatty and...chipper for a medical professional, and Morrison is still strangely incongruous thanks to the damage of his vigilante years, both of them are less bothersome than Satya had anticipated. Ziegler’s little hints of suspicion, leading to all kinds of tests, is understandable to Satya, and it’s somewhat relieving to see there is true professional underneath her bedside manner. Morrison is slipping into his old role rather well despite the years.

No, it is not they who are the problem.

The first Satya sees of the new Overwatch’s ‘expert recruits’ is when she stops by the workshop, interested in taking a full inventory. There’s a man in there. A _filthy_ man, shirtless, blonde hair sticking out in odd directions. He stands incredibly tall for a moment as he reaches to retrieve a tool from a top shelf, then hunches down to Satya’s eye level once he’s got it in his hand. He turns back to the... _thing_ on the workbench, and suddenly they’re looking at each other.

“G’day!” he says cheerfully, hopping over the bench and sticking a hand at Satya. “You must be the new blood! Put ‘er there, girlie!”

Satya looks down at the offered hand and blanches. _Touch_ him? Unacceptable. Impossible. He’s grinning at her, eyebrows raised, and there’s silence in the workshop now. She’ll let it stretch on until—

“Well!” He snaps his hand back and points up at the ceiling. “Not the hand-shaking type, I see! No problem, not everyone has to be, right? The name’s Jamison, but everyone calls me Junkrat, so I guess that’s my codename.” He points his thumb at himself and grins. “Normally I’d introduce you to Roadie but the doc says he has to ‘heal’ or whatever. Got a big old fist imprint right in the middle of his belly,” he adds, turning back to the circular object on the table. “I say it’d make a nice tattoo, but Angie’s gotta be all ‘internal bleeding’ this and ‘could die’ that.”

Satya considers her options, and decides that at least nominal politeness should be attempted. “I am Satya Vaswani.”

“Ooh, pretty name.” Satya regrets her choice immediately, but the man doesn’t seem to be following up further on that comment, which is a blessing. “Hey, come check this out. Cool new thingy I’m workin’ on.”

Satya is hesitant to approach the table, but he beckons her over insistently until she does. “Check this baby out,” he says, running his hand along one spiked edge. It’s...a tire. “Doesn’t look like much, besides awesome of course, but look at this.” Junkrat stands back and puts his fingers in his ears, and the thing hops to life suddenly, standing on its edge and revving oddly. Satya jumps back, preparing a photon barrier just in case.

“Neat, eh? Neural connector! Grabbed it off some cyborg what wasn’t usin’ it. Can move it wherever I want, trip the detonator, and boom!” Junkrat slaps his hands together, making Satya jump _again,_ and she’s very tired of losing her composure around this animal. The tire drops back to the table, inert.

“So what is it that you actually do?” Satya asks.

“Demo expert, of course! Me and Roadie are what you call in when you’re sick of faffing about and want to actually level something.” Junkrat raises his eyebrows. “What about you?”

“Hard light expert. Defensive specialist.”

“Sounds like we work opposite shifts, then! Guess we won’t see much of each other unless everything goes whacko on us.”

 _Yes,_ Satya thinks, _and may it stay that way._

 

* * *

 

The next oddity she stumbles across is a young girl, clad in a smock, climbing on top of a large gray mech. Satya spots her in the garage and lingers in the doorway, not feeling a need to approach or interact unless noticed. It is interesting to see her work. She adjusts the mech’s limb servos with precision, checks the interior diagnostics, makes adjustments to the gun turret mechanisms. She hops off the mech for a second and spots Satya lingering in the doorway.

She offers her a wave and a high-pitched “Hey!” and she _is_ young. Twenty at the most. Who _is_ Overwatch recruiting these days?

Satya collects herself. “Hello. I’m Satya Vaswani, hard light specialist.” She’s starting to have that script memorized.

“Oh, cool! I heard about you. I’m Hana Song, code name D.va. We’ll probably end up together, we’d make a great team if I’m right, and I’m always right about strategy.” She gives Satya a wink, then bangs the mech’s chassis. “I’m just taking a look at the newest model they’ve sent me. Making a couple adjustments, y’know? Once I send it back they’ll mass-produce it with my changes so that whenever I need to trigger a self-destruct—”

“A what?” Satya asks, blanching. “You destroy these?”

“Oh, yeah, all the time. But I need a new one whenever I blow one up in battle, right, so it better be just as good as the last one. Hey, you came in just in time for the best part. Wanna watch?”

“I suppose.” Satya can’t help her curiosity, though she finds the whole concept of Song’s battle technique an enormous waste.

“Sweet. One sec.” Hana starts collecting a number of stickers laying on the ground, pasting them over all the mech’s glass and moving parts. Satya raises her eyebrows. Just as she’s trying to work out what on earth the girl’s doing, she bends down and picks up a can beside the mech’s feet, then flips her goggles down over her head. She grins, looks back at Satya, and gives her another wink.

And then she spray-paints the entire machine bright pink.

 

* * *

 

This place is a nightmare.

If it is not people making horrid messes in the workspaces, it is loud music being blasted from the mess hall, Lúcio and Oxton dancing like drunken children on the tables while Song films on her phone. (Though, Satya will begrudgingly admit that Lúcio is far more respectful of her than she perhaps deserves, given the history between their former organizations. Satya does admit to him that his actions spurred her defection. He always turns the music down when she’s nearby, or switches to something soft.) It is that gorilla lumbering the halls in a labcoat, fragile test vials gathered in his enormous paws, so easy to knock from his grip. It is a cargo bay full of opened boxes, supplies spread out across the floor by eager “inventors” or soldiers looking for more bullets to waste on the practice range. It is the click of _spurs_ against the hallway floors, or the _clonk_ of Junkrat’s pegleg, or the zipping of Lúcio’s skates.

She spends most of her time in her room, if she can, twisting light into soothing, beautiful, regular patterns, sculptures with no purpose beyond smoothing Satya’s frayed nerves. A foolish hobby, perhaps. But it seems there’s little else to do. Overwatch’s focus seems to be more on recruiting and intelligence gathering at the moment, and Satya is still considered a risk for monitoring or forcible re-employment by Vishkar. So here she is.

Her door opens and she stills her hands, a blue dodecahedron suspended between her fingertips. She breathes out, cautiously, looking to the doorway to see the intruder.

Fareeha. It is the first time that Satya has seen her since her recruitment. She’s in a basic black t-shirt and jeans, dog tags hanging from her neck. “Am I interrupting?” she asks, holding back from actually entering the room.

“It is no matter,” Satya says, though she keeps the construct prepared. Holding it in place holds her in place.

Fareeha clears her throat. “I was coming by to ask how you’re settling in. But I can leave. You don’t have to stop.”

Satya quirks an eyebrow. Remain still. It is one of the most important lessons of dance she ever learned, to keep one’s body and mind in a state of total arrest. When all else fails, it saves her. Allows her to consider her actions in their totality before they are done.

Fareeha’s interest is respectful, curious, orderly. She does not enter without permission and she does not push. Does not judge Satya, even. So rare is it to find someone who does not at some point hint at discomfort with her, or resentment of her needs.

“Come in,” Satya says. “Close the door behind you. I prefer the quiet.”

“All right.” Fareeha follows Satya’s instruction, taking a seat in her desk chair. Satya makes a few more adjustments to the model, breathing in and out, watching light turn from nothing into something, symmetrical and orderly. “What is it that you’re doing?”

“Exercises,” Satya answers, for that’s the only thing she can come up with. “I create objects that conform to my desires.”

“So you’re sculpting?”

“The constructs do not last,” Satya says. “They are not art. The value is in their creation, not their existence. It is simply a hobby of mine. It is soothing.”

The dodecahedron materializes between her hands and she catches it easily, running her fingers along its perfect edges.

“So...how _are_ you settling in?” Fareeha asks carefully.

Satya holds her creation between two fingers. She breathes.

“Satya?”

“This operation is simply incoherent,” she mutters, crushing the object with her prosthetic arm, blinking it out back into light. “I am appalled.” She turns back to Fareeha, meeting her eyes. She looks worried. Nonsense. This is simple, fair criticism, nothing more.

“What’s wrong?” Fareeha asks. “If there’s anything—”

“Your ‘forces’ are a gaggle of mismatched lunatics, self-absorbed ‘heroes’, vigilantes, and _wanted criminals,_ your base of operations is mismanaged and highly disorganized at best, your leadership is uncertain who is actually in command, the personnel are inconsiderate and loud, and I’ve yet to do any real work whatsoever!” Satya finds herself panting, her breath getting away from her, composure failing. She swallows and stands up straighter.

“I happen to agree with you.”

Satya blinks. “You do?”

“Let’s say this is not what I was pitched when Winston called me a year ago. I left a highly trained and specialized company to come here and try to rebuild my mother’s legacy, and it has been...difficult.” Fareeha sighs and leans forward on the table. “I’ve done some good work here, but we’re still barely getting started. The world’s a bit of a mess. The best we’ve been able to do is counter Talon operations where we can, but that’s not enough. With Athena back on-line and a few of our older members returning, I think we’re getting close to who we need to be. But, you’re right. We’re all just doing our best to get on our feet and prevent another Omnic crisis from spreading.”

“I understand,” Satya says, nodding at her. “I am not seeking to leave. I chose this as a commitment.”

“I’m glad. I did, too.” Fareeha puts her hand on her chin, looking at Satya thoughtfully. “They’re not all bad, you know. Perhaps not as...disciplined as your traditional army, but Overwatch was always about top talent, not military structure. And I’m sure some of us might be more to your taste. I knew as soon as I picked you up that I should keep you and Junkrat a mile from each other.”

Despite herself, Satya smiles. There’s a kindness and understanding in Fareeha that she’s rarely seen. The gentle humor helps.

“Give us a chance, Satya,” Fareeha urges. “A few more of our retainers are actually coming by the Watchpoint soon. Make their acquaintance if you can. I doubt you’ll agree with their philosophy, but you might find them better company.”

“I will try,” Satya assures her. “I apologize for my outburst. It was unprofessional of me.”

Fareeha chuckles. “Satya, I assure you, you’re the most professional woman in this entire operation.”

Satya feels a heat in her cheeks. Perhaps it is only natural. It is rare she receives such compliments. She closes her eyes briefly and takes a breath. “Thank you, Fareeha,” she says after opening them again. She can feel herself draining, however. She was drained when she stepped in here and started her rituals, and while Fareeha is...fine company, she could use real silence, the kind without the presence of another life in her space. “I would prefer to be alone for a while,” she adds cautiously.

“Of course.” Fareeha stands and makes to leave.

Satya has something she should say. So she does.

“Fareeha,” she calls as the door slides open for her. “I do find you...better company. Than most.”

Fareeha looks over her shoulder and gives her a smile. “I can say the same, Ms. Vaswani.”

It is a silly thing to be pleased about. But Satya remembers the look in Fareeha’s eye for days.

 

* * *

 

Satya does start to find some semblance of balance in the next week. The Omnic monk Zenyatta and his pupil Genji come into the fold, and she while she does find their ideas on freedom and peace somewhat antiquated and ridiculous, she cannot fault their manners when around her.

One day, she finds the two of them sitting on pads in the common area, Zenyatta’s orbs lying on the ground around him in a circle. In a simple, soothing pattern, they make small _bong_ sounds and light up briefly. Satya finds herself drawn in, and Zenyatta raises his head to see her.

“Join us, if you like,” he offers. “I find meditation helps to clarify my purpose, especially when I am in the Watchpoint.”

Satya remembers her promise to Fareeha, to try. So she does take a seat beside him, folding her legs, closing her eyes. The beats of Zenyatta’s orbs become her focus, and she finds herself breathing easily, tension flowing out of her body.

No one bothers them. While footsteps go by, and people pause to look, they move on quickly, and Satya doesn’t find them particularly irritating, either. It is simply the flow of the place.

Perhaps the monk’s methods have their merits.

 

* * *

 

Mei and Reinhardt turn out to be fine companions when she sits down to eat in the mess, though Reinhardt could stand to modulate his volume better. He is a perfect gentleman, and Mei, while somewhat excitable, is a proper scientist. Torbjorn is one best avoided, and luckily he seems to feel the same about her, muttering something about “proper work with your _hands_ ” under his breath when she passes him by in the workshop. Orisa is rather unlike Zenyatta; she comes off as quite robotic, though Efi herself is an agreeable enough presence for a child.  Zarya, while ridiculously sporting a bright pink hairdo, is largely silent, and Satya will admit her presence in the gym is always...impressive.

Still, Satya keeps to herself much of the time. It is rare that she finds herself wanting any more company than is forced upon her simply by living here. When she does, she usually thinks of Fareeha. She’ll seek Fareeha out specifically, finding her in the workshop and learning the little kinks and design flaws of her Raptora suit, showing her the way she can use her hard light projector. Their time together is largely quiet, but Fareeha is always so complimentary, so considerate, so professional.

It is a foolish thing to think of her so much, but not so foolish as what Satya does when she overhears a basketball game in-progress in the gym. The squeak of shoes on rubber, the pounding of the ball being dribbled, none of that interests her. Fareeha’s shout of triumph does.

She heads towards the commotion, quietly opening the door and peering in. Fareeha stands tall above most of the others, wearing a red-and-white jersey with black shorts beneath. A pleasing color combination. The muscles in her arms flex as she dribbles between her legs, a rather incensed Junkrat watching the ball with great intensity before she shoots it over to Lúcio. Lúcio, however, is not a tall man, and the ball is quickly taken from his control when he tries to pass back, Shimada making an exaggerated leap into the air.

They aren’t proper teams, not really. They’re several short, and the competitors are mismatched, to say the least. But Fareeha dominates them all. She’s fast, efficient, and surprisingly stylish as she works the court, never having any trouble taking the ball from even the (unfairly advantaged, in Satya’s opinion) cyborg. Satya can’t help but admire her form, both in her play and...physically.

She leaps up to dunk yet another ball, and as she does, her jersey rides up, slipping over her abs.

_Exquisite._

She’s staring. It’s impolite to stare.

And it’s not subtle.

Fareeha throws her arms into the air as the timer goes off, Lúcio giving her a huge high-five. But she turns, and spots Satya against the wall. She looks shocked at first, then settles into a smile. She excuses herself from the rest of the players as they begin recounting the game and laughing with each other, sauntering up to Satya.

“Didn’t expect you to come by,” she says, and oh, no. Satya knows what that tone means. It took her a few unpleasant experiences to figure it out, and she should hate it, as she usually does. Instead she finds her heart beating faster, palms growing damp. She clears her throat.

“I was merely curious as to what you all were doing in here. It sounded like quite the commotion.”

“How innocent,” Fareeha says airily, taking a step closer to Satya.

Satya struggles. Her usual methods are failing her. What is there to say? She spotted you staring. She is not a fool. “Your performance was very impressive,” she manages.

“I’m glad you appreciate my skills.” Satya expects her to take another step closer, to get in her space, like many have done before her when they wanted something out of her she would not give. But she doesn’t, merely putting a hand on her hip and looking into Satya’s eyes. There’s an intensity in her gaze that makes Satya want to look away, and yet stay locked here, all at once. “If you’d ever like to learn to play, or just watch me again…”

This is flirting. This is clearly, clearly flirting, and Satya isn’t versed in how to flirt back, so she says, “That will not be necessary. Just a curiosity. I already knew you were more disciplined and skilled than most around here.”

Fareeha chuffs. “Did you, now?”

Satya’s playing right into it. It’s too much. “I should leave,” she says quickly. “It seems your teammates are calling you back.” She has no idea if they are or not, but Fareeha turns her head, and Satya flees. She does not run. That would be improper. But she does walk very fast.

 

* * *

 

Satya has been forming and reforming shapes and structures for an hour when the knock on her door comes. She’s come to differentiate between the knocking patterns of Morrison, Ziegler, and Fareeha. Fareeha is always soft, quiet, a question rather than an insistence. Satya swallows, her blueprint stretched perfectly across her vision. Don’t be silly. Fareeha is...a friend. Satya’s had few enough friends in her life that it is paramount to maintain that friendship.

“Come in,” she says, shrinking the sculpture down to fit in the palm of her hand.

Fareeha enters timidly, her body tight and tense. “Satya.” She pauses for a moment as their eyes meet. “I’m sorry I made you uncomfortable yesterday. I didn’t mean to put you on the spot like that.”

Satya blinks. Fareeha is full of surprises, always pleasant. She flashes her sculpture into existence in her hand, sitting down on her bed. “It is not your fault,” Satya says, staring at her work so she needn’t look Fareeha in the eye. “I understand.”

“But—”

“I know that I am, I am strange, and awkward, and uncomfortable for most to be around, and I do not have the right response to anything.” She resists closing her fist around the sculpture. She runs her thumb over it instead, feeling the abstract, symmetrical edges, trying to calm herself. “It is not something that I normally allow to bother me. But yesterday, I feared…”

She falls silent. How can she say this and have it mean what she truly feels? It’s not something she’s practiced much with, speaking of emotions and desires. It was always negotiation of practicalities.

“Do you mind if I sit next to you?” Fareeha asks, taking a hesitant step towards her.

“Please do.”

As Fareeha sits down beside her, Satya takes a deep breath. “I feared I had alienated you. That you might tire of me, or be confused by me, or find me irritating. I did not wish you to view me in such a way. It usually matters little what others think of me personally so long as they respect me professionally.” She dares to look over at Fareeha, who’s staring at the ground. “But not you.”

“I don’t think any of those things about you,” Fareeha says. “You’re different, yes. But I’d like to think we are, at least, friends. I want to respect your limits. I wish I’d realized what I was doing before you ran off.”

“I did not run,” Satya says automatically. “I removed myself quickly.”

Fareeha chuckles. “Well. You avoided me. For good reason. I don’t want you to think I don’t respect you, Satya. All of you, not just your talent, but your needs. They matter to me. You matter to me. I’d like to see...what else we could be, beyond colleagues.”

Satya draws in a sharp breath. So much for composure.

“I think I would like that,” she says softly, under her breath. To admit such a thing feels strange, heavy. They don’t speak, for a moment. Then Satya decides to share something else with Fareeha. She takes her sculpture delicately and places it in Fareeha’s hands, lying open in her lap.

Fareeha looks up, questioning. “It is not a traditional shape,” Satya says carefully. “It has no name, and no purpose. But feel its edges.” Fareeha obliges, tracing her fingers through the shape’s abstract contours. “It is not regular, or rational. But it is, to me, beautiful and orderly. Crafting it, feeling it, helps to calm me in this disorganized place. As does being in your company.”

Fareeha nods as Satya takes back the sculpture, holding it between two cybernetic fingers. “Each that I create is new. I am never sure what I am making until I have found a pleasing enough shape. But the process of discovery is engaging, as well.” She pinches it and it disintegrates, back into particles and light. “I would like to discover...more. Outside of my experience at Vishkar. But it will be difficult for me.” She meets Fareeha’s eyes. “Do you understand?”

“I do,” Fareeha says softly.

Slowly, hesitantly, Satya reaches out with her human arm. Fareeha’s hand remains upturned and open. Satya presses her fingers along Fareeha’s palm, marveling in the sensation of skin on skin, twining them with Fareeha’s at the end. Her heart beats hard in her chest, so much that she wonders if Fareeha can feel the pulse in her wrist. Fareeha squeezes, just slightly, smiling at her with such kind eyes.

And here in the silence, Satya is content.


End file.
